


Close Quarters

by silverfoxstole



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-27
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major Cotard is not happy with his accommodation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

“This is ridiculous! Surely the capitane cannot be serious!”

“Is there a problem, sir?” Matthews asked, putting Major Côtard’s cloak bag down on the deck. The Frenchman stood in the middle of the tiny cabin, his head bent at an unnatural angle to avoid hitting it on the beams above, an expression of extreme consternation on his face.

“Oui! Oui, there is a problem!” Côtard exclaimed, gesturing to the two cots, side by side in the cramped space. “The capitane cannot expect me to sleep ‘ere! The other…who else is to share this…this…cupboard?”

“This is Mr Bush’s cabin, sir – I was instructed to show you ‘ere. Anything else you’ll ‘ave to take up wi’ the captain, sir,” Matthews said, trying to keep a straight face. Côtard looked about to explode at any minute.

“Then I will do so!” the major declared, throwing his cloak dramatically over one shoulder and fairly stalking the couple of feet to the door. “Do not put my luggage there – it will not be staying!” he added, before flouncing away.

“Bloody ‘ell!” Styles appeared in the doorway. “We got a right one there!”

Matthews was shaking his head and smiling. “Poor Mr Bush – ‘aving to be in close quarters with ‘im.”

Styles pulled a face. “It’s the major I feel sorry for – Mr Bush’ll ‘ave him fer breakfast.”

“Speaking o’ which, shouldn’t you be gettin’ on wi’ that?”

“It’s on its way, don’t worry. Thought I’d see what all the shoutin’ were about. I - ”

“Styles.” The new voice, dangerously quiet, made them both jump. Styles turned to see Lieutenant Bush standing behind him. “Has the galley moved in my absence?” Bush asked, raising an eyebrow. “I could have sworn it used to be in the opposite direction.”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir,” Styles said quickly. “I were just goin’, sir.” He wisely knuckled his forehead and hurried away before he suffered the rough edge of Bush’s tongue.

The lieutenant watched him go. “Is something wrong, Matthews?” he asked when Styles had disappeared.

“The major isn’t happy wi’ his accommodation, sir.”

“The major will have to realise that this is a sloop of war, not an hotel. Where is he?”

“Gone to speak to the captain, sir.”

Bush swore. “Damn the man! Who the devil does he think he is?” He shook his head. “I had better get to the captain before he does.”

“I don’t think that’ll be too difficult, sir,” Matthews said.

“Oh? Why?”

The bos’n tried to hide a smile. “Well, sir, I don’t think Major Côtard knows his way around the ship yet. When I last saw ‘im, he was ‘eading for’ard.”

There was only the slightest flicker of mirth around Bush’s mouth, but Matthews didn’t miss the spark in his eyes. “Thank you. Carry on, Matthews.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

***

Eight bells had just sounded, signalling the end of the forenoon watch.

The cat was walking slowly along the larb’d rail, head held high, tail in the air.

Orrock watched it with an amused smile – the animal seemed to think it owned the place, paying no attention to anyone. “Does the cat have a name?” he asked Matthews, who was coiling up some rope on the main deck.

The bos’n looked up in surprise. “Shouldn’t think so, sir – ‘e only appeared yesterday. Been makin’ ‘imself at home ever since, though.”

Orrock nodded, musing on what sort of a name might be suitable for the animal. Ignoring him completely, the tabby sat down on its haunches and proceeded to lazily wash itself, yawning widely. It was plain that the activity of a ship at sea didn’t interest it in the slightest.

“Is Mr Bush always like that, do you think?”

Jumping at the voice behind him, Orrock glanced round to see the Hotspur’s other midshipman, Jack Hammond, standing there. The boy looked distinctly queasy, and somewhat on edge – his encounter with the first lieutenant hadn’t done his nerves any good at all. Since then, Hammond had visibly blanched every time he encountered Bush, ducking into the shadows to try and avoid being noticed. Bush, for his part, failed to see him at all, concerned more with putting Hotspur to sea.

“Like what?” Orrock asked, confused.

“So…sharp…and dismissive. He seemed quite different when I met him before.”

“And when have you been consorting with senior officers, Jack?”

Hammond flushed. “At the Long Rooms, with my uncle. Mr Bush was there with the captain – I found him polite and courteous. But earlier…there was no need for him to speak to me as he did.”

Sighing, Orrock tried not to roll his eyes. He had a green one here, and no mistake. “Jack, this is a ship of war. We don’t socialise. An officer’s not going to shake you by the hand. You’d best get used to that. And Mr Bush isn’t that bad. He seems quite fair to me. Am I right, Matthews?”

“Oh, aye, sir,” the bos’n replied, “’E is that.”

“Matthews!” Hammond flinched at the bark. Bush had appeared from below decks without anyone noticing. His face was set in what Orrock assumed to be its natural stern expression.

“Sir?”

“Where’s the captain?”

“In ‘is cabin, with Major Côtard, sir.”

Bush nodded, and turned his piercing blue gaze on the two midshipmen. “If you’ve finished gossiping, Mr Orrock, we’ll have an exercise with the guns in ten minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Orrock snapped to attention, nudging Hammond with his elbow. To his credit, thus startled Hammond managed a creditable salute. Bush looked him coolly up and down, making the boy quake, before turning on his heel and heading aft towards the captain’s cabin. Once he was gone, Hammond breathed out in relief.

“He hates me,” he said plaintively.

“Don’t be so ridiculous. Just keep your head down, learn as much as you can and do as you’re told, and you’ll be fine,” Orrock assured him. “Don’t give him reason to find fault with you.” He looked back towards the rail – the cat glanced up from its ablutions to pin him with a disdainful stare. “Matthews,” he said, an idea suddenly striking him, “do you know Mr Bush’s first name?”

The bos’n frowned. “Can’t say that I do, sir. Any particular reason you wanted to know, sir?”

“It’s not important. I was just curious.”

Matthews nodded and went back to his work.

“It’s William,” Hammond said after a long pause, during which time Orrock had all but forgotten his question.

“What is?”

“Mr Bush’s name. I heard him tell the major earlier. Why did you want to know?”

Orrock grinned, and reached out to pick up the cat. The animal slipped neatly through his fingers, leaping lightly down onto the deck and throwing back a glare as it stalked away. “That cat needs a name. I was just thinking that he reminds me of someone.”

Hammond blinked, puzzled. “Who?”

“Well now, don’t you think that ‘William’ would suit him rather well?”

***

“As I have already informed you, major, you may either use the quarters allotted to you, or sleep on deck. It is your choice. And that is my final word on the matter.” Hornblower returned his gaze to the papers on his desk.

Côtard drew himself up to his full height – not an easy task, as he had to tilt his head to one side. “Your final word?” he repeated.

“Yes, my final word.” Hornblower tried to keep the irritation from his voice. The sealed orders from Admiral Pellew were sitting on the desk, awaiting his attention, and this guest, this French dandy thrust upon him against his inclination, was distracting him from them.

“The admiral will ‘ear of this,” Côtard declared.

“Well, as you will not get a letter back to England until we sight a packet boat, I suggest you make the best of your situation, major.”

Côtard was rapidly turning purple. “I - ” he began, but was thankfully interrupted by a knock at the door.

Bush put his head around it. “Gun crews ready for your inspection, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Bush. I will be there directly.”

“Is everything all right, sir?” Bush asked, glancing pointedly at Côtard. The major returned the look with a haughty stare, his nose raised as though to guard against an unpleasant smell. Bush’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Yes, thank you. The major was just leaving,” Hornblower said quickly.

“I am not accustomed to sharing my room with members of the lower orders, capitane,” said Côtard, running a disdainful eye over Bush. Fortunately, Bush was used to maintaining a blank expression under extreme provocation, but Hornblower didn’t miss the hand that twitched reflexively towards the hilt of the lieutenant’s sword.

“I would like to remind you, major, that Mr Bush is first lieutenant and second-in-command aboard this ship, and as such you will kindly show him the proper respect,” he said sharply. “A man’s background has nothing to do with his ability.”

Côtard sniffed. “As you will.”

Hornblower got to his feet. “And now, major, if there is nothing else, I have business to attend to.”

Côtard harrumphed and abruptly left the cabin, slamming the door behind him. Bush watched him go with a look of unbridled dislike. “Is there nowhere else we can put him, sir?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not, William. We are quite pushed for space as it is. And I don’t think the admiral would be pleased were we to house him in the hold. You will just have to make the best of it.” Hornblower found his hat and opened the door. “After the Spanish in the West Indies, I’m sure we can manage one Frenchman.”

“The Spaniards didn’t have to share my berth,” Bush muttered as he followed.

“Then be grateful for small mercies, Mr Bush. It would have been even more cramped.”

***

“I suppose this is a palace to you, eh?”

Bush stopped unbuttoning his jacket and looked at Côtard. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, with your background…it must seem like ‘eaven to ‘ave a little space to yourself,” the major said, a little sly smile on his face that Bush didn’t like at all. He hadn’t forgotten Côtard’s referring to him as ‘the common crew’, and didn’t plan on forgiving him in the near future.

“Of course,” he said, purposely injecting as much sarcasm into his voice as possible, “My entire family shared the one room – my parents, three sisters, cousins…when I received my first posting, the midshipman’s berth was a paradise.” He threw the jacket over the only chair in the cabin, kicked off his shoes and climbed into his cot, feeling Côtard’s eyes on him the entire time.

“I need your assistance,” the major said after some time, when Bush had nearly drifted off to sleep.

Opening one eye, he saw Côtard sitting on the chair, tugging ineffectually at his boots. “With what?”

The major gestured to his predicament. “I cannot remove them without ‘elp.”

“Then sleep in them,” Bush grunted, and turned to face the wall.

“I may be forced to lodge in a dark, dirty ‘ole, but I refuse to let all standards slip. I am your guest – the least you can do is ‘elp me.”

“I am not your valet, major.” Bush shut his eyes again. He heard Côtard get up and start pacing the couple of spare feet of deck between the cots. The man’s spurs clanked and jingled as he walked, thumping on the deck with every step. Tired and exasperated, Bush rolled over. “What the devil is the matter?” he demanded.

Côtard glanced at him over his shoulder. “You ‘ave decided that I am the enemy, because I am a Frenchman, vous avez- pas?”

“I have decided nothing, major. I merely dislike being treated as something nasty you picked up on your shoe,” said Bush irritably. “The fact that your blood may be bluer than mine does not make me any less of a man.”

“You sound like a revolutionary, Monsieur Bush.” Côtard pronounced it as ‘Boosh’, something Bush was sure was done just to annoy him.

“I’m just asking for a little courtesy, major. You are sharing my cabin, after all.”

“And I am asking for a moment’s assistance. Your capitaine would be displeased to know that you ‘ave been most un’elpful,” said Côtard, fixing Bush with a sharp and knowing dark gaze. “And ‘e shall ‘ear of it…”

Groaning, Bush pulled himself out of the cot. Côtard sat down on the chair, offering one leg much as Bush remembered the horses doing in his uncle’s forge. The boots were so well moulded to Côtard’s calves that removing them took no little effort on Bush’s part. Seeing his own well-worn shoes lying on the deck, he couldn’t help wondering how a dispossessed Frenchman could afford such expensive footwear. Everything about Côtard was highly polished and perfectly poised, carried off with an arrogance that could only have come from being born into French nobility.

“I do not think I will recommend your services, lieutenant,” Côtard said with that smirk Bush was coming to loathe. “A good manservant ‘as need of a little…’ow do you say? A little ‘umility.”

Inwardly seething, Bush dumped the gleaming boots on the deck and got back into his cot. He laid his head gratefully on the pillow and settled down to sleep. Seemingly oblivious to this, Côtard busied himself unpacking his belongings and preparing for bed, singing to himself in French, an irritatingly cheerful little tune that did little to improve Bush’s mood. “Major, please,” he said eventually, “I have to take the middle watch – I need to rest.”

“Mais naturellement - mes excuses, mon ami. I shall…Mon Dieu! Que s'est produit? Qu'a fait ceci?” Côtard exclaimed, his voice rising in consternation.

“What’s the matter, major?” Bush asked wearily without opening his eyes. A moment later he found himself being shaken vigorously by the shoulder. Côtard was standing over him, waving something that looked like a very fine silk nightshirt in front of his face.

“Regard! Look! Look at this!”

Bush peered at the cloth. In the dim light of the cabin it was difficult to see clearly, but it seemed that the nightshirt was covered in –

“Hairs! Cat hairs!” Côtard shouted, incensed. “’Ow ‘as this ‘appened? Where is this animal? It ‘as shredded the silk!”

Bush looked more closely, and tried not to smile as he saw that the fabric had been rent down one side – there were definite claw marks in it. “I’m sure I have no idea, major. I was not aware that there was a cat on board.”

“Well, what are you going to do, First Lieutenant?” Côtard put particular emphasis on Bush’s title. “Are you not in charge of the crew?”

Bush raised an eyebrow. “What do you wish me to do, major? Hang the cat from the yardarm?”

“I demand that you find the animal and…extorquez son cou!” When Bush looked blank, Côtard searched for a translation. “You will…wring its neck! Immédiatement!”

Trying very hard not to laugh at such a ridiculous demand, Bush shook his head and turned over, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders and leaving Côtard staring at him in impotent rage. He yawned. “In the morning, major, first thing in the morning…”

***

“Where have you been, then?”

The tabby cat strolled past Orrock on the quarterdeck. He hadn’t been seen since the previous evening, when Orrock had spotted him padding down the companionway, down to the lower deck. William was looking rather pleased with himself this morning – Orrock wondered whether he had got into the galley, and glanced round, half expecting to see Styles in pursuit with a cleaver.

“And what have you been up to, eh?” he asked the cat. It glanced up at him with an almost quizzical gaze, as if enquiring why he was asking such a ridiculous question. “All right, William, you keep your secrets, but don’t blame me if you get into trouble. Styles will probably put you in the stew.”

“Mr Orrock!”

Orrock turned to see Bush climbing the quarterdeck steps. The first lieutenant was looking tired, as though he had slept badly. “Sir?”

“Where did that animal come from?” Bush asked, pointing at William, who had approached him with interest. Orrock was surprised – it was the first time he had seen the cat treat any member of the crew with anything other than contempt.

“I don’t know, sir – I think he came aboard in Portsmouth.”

Bush looked down at the cat, which was staring right back at him. Orrock waited with trepidation to be told to either throw the animal over the side or drown it in a bucket. “Well, I suppose he’ll keep the rats down in the hold,” Bush said. He bent down to pick William up – astonishingly, the cat actually let him. Orrock had three painful scratches on his arm from the last time he had attempted to touch him. Bush glanced up. “Your watch ended five minutes ago, Mr Orrock. Go and get some sleep.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Orrock jumped to it, hurrying below and leaving William with Bush. Looking over his shoulder as he descended from the quarterdeck, he could have sworn he saw the lieutenant talking to the cat.

***

“So it was you, then, eh?” Bush asked quietly. The cat yawned hugely and rubbed its head against the back of his hand. It was a tabby, rather small and undernourished, but with a definite air of aloofness and authority. It was clear that it already considered Hotspur its home. “And how did you get into my cabin, hmm?”

Unsurprisingly, the cat didn’t reply. Bush had his suspicions, however. Côtard was still asleep, snoring abominably. Bush had heard broadsides make less noise, and had never been more grateful when the time came to go on watch.

“I think that you are going to have to make yourself scarce for a while,” he told the cat. “The major will want your hide.”

The animal just looked at him, as if challenging him to do something about it.

“I should put you over the side, you know,” Bush said.

The cat purred and licked his hand.

“And you won’t find your way round me with flattery.”

He received a questioning ‘miaow’ in reply. The large green eyes were focussed on him – Bush was sure that if it could, the cat would have raised an eyebrow at him.

He sighed. He was going soft, he was sure of it. Fixing the animal with a steely glare, he said sternly, “All right. You can stay. But you chase the rats below and keep out of trouble. You are not to ruin any more of Major Côtard’s dunnage. Understood?”

The cat yawned again. Bush crouched and let it go, watching it walk across the deck with the complete confidence that no one would challenge it. “Off you go, William, do your duty.” He had heard Orrock call the cat by name, though he was careful not to let the boy know that. He smiled, and shook his head. “Well done, by the way. He was furious.”

With a flick of his tail, William disappeared below.

***

Bush’s first watch on board the Hotspur passed without incident.

As Prowse appeared to relieve him and take over the quarterdeck, Bush steeled himself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Styles popped up from below, a tray in one hand. He knuckled his forehead. “Captain wants to see you, sir – right away.”

“Very well, Styles. Have you just served breakfast?”

“Aye, sir. There’s plenty if you want some,” Styles said, looking at Bush in slight trepidation.

Bush recalled the previous day’s attempt at breakfast and shuddered inwardly. However, his stomach was telling him that he needed to eat. “If you can manage to make it remotely edible, then yes.”

“I’ll do me best, sir.”

Leaving the big man to return to the galley, Bush made his way to Hornblower’s cabin. If he had just been served with an example of Styles’s prison cooking, it was unlikely that the captain would be in a good mood. Bush knocked on the door, to be rewarded with a curt command of “Come!”

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he said smoothly, schooling his features into practised calm. Côtard was there already, as Bush had expected. The ruined nightshirt was laid out on Hornblower’s desk, and, to Bush’s surprise, the cat was sitting on one of the chairs, watching the proceedings with interest.

“Yes, Mr Bush. You would perhaps oblige me by explaining how this animal comes to be aboard,” Hornblower replied, gesturing to William.

“I have no idea, sir. I can only assume that he came aboard while we were still in Portsmouth.”

“This cat has been making a nuisance of himself, Mr Bush. Major Côtard is extremely displeased about the destruction of his property.”

Bush fixed his gaze on a point above Hornblower’s left shoulder. He knew that Côtard was smirking, and refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. “I can imagine, sir.”

“I have assured the major that he will be reimbursed for the damage, and that the perpetrator will be properly dealt with,” said Hornblower gravely.

“Of course, sir. May I ask how?”

“We will discuss that later. Until then, kindly confine the animal to the hold, where it cannot do any more damage.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bush wasn’t entirely sure how he would manage to confine a cat anywhere, especially one as clever as William seemed to be.

Côtard raised an eyebrow, smiling smugly. “The capitaine had promised that I shall ‘ave a replacement for my…er, my…chemise de nuit.”

Bush couldn’t help frowning, wondering where they could obtain a silk nightshirt in the middle of the Channel, but Côtard saved him the bother of asking. The major’s smile grew as he added, “Capitaine ‘Ornblower says that you will be ‘appy to lend me one of your own. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Bush.”

“Sir, I - ” Bush protested. It was bad enough that Côtard had taken over his berth without having to pander to the man’s every whim!

“That animal is your responsibility, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, “Lending the major a shirt is surely the least you can do.”

“Sir, that animal is not mine!” Bush felt something brush against his trouser leg and looked down to see William there, rubbing the side of his head against the heavy fabric. The cat purred, and looked up at him innocently.

“It seems to have taken quite a shine to you. Take it away, if you please – lock it in the brig if you have to, but get it out of my sight.” Hornblower looked down at his desk, pulling the breakfast plate towards him. Even from his position near the door, Bush could see that Styles had not improved since yesterday’s effort. “Dismissed, Mr Bush.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bush scooped up the cat and left the cabin, feeling Côtard’s mocking eyes on him all the way. Outside, he nearly bumped into Styles, who was carrying a loaded tray.

“Got your breakfast, sir.” The big man juggled the tray, nearly dropping it in his haste to salute.

Bush looked down at the overcooked, barely recognisable food, and flicked an eyebrow in Styles’s direction. An idea occurred to him. Biting back the scathing comment that had come to mind, he said, “Better, Styles, better.”

Now Styles almost did drop the tray, surprised at receiving something approaching a compliment from Bush. “Really, sir?”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to sample it, however – I have some urgent business to attend to.”

“Shame to let it go to waste, sir.”

“Can’t be helped, Styles.” Bush made to continue on his way, and then stopped, as though he had just thought of something. “Oh, belay that, Styles. Major Côtard was just saying how much he’d like to sample Naval cuisine. He’s with the captain now, and he’s very hungry.”

Styles looked at him, and Bush could tell that the big man didn’t believe a word of it. “If you’re sure, sir…?”

“Go on, Styles – it doesn’t do to keep the major waiting. He’s a very important man.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Styles reached for the doorknob of Hornblower’s cabin.

Bush decided that it was probably time to make himself scarce, and headed towards the companionway, a displeased William safely under one arm.

***

To his annoyance, Bush kept running into Côtard for the rest of the day.

By the evening, he had had quite enough of the man lording it over him, muttering what were no doubt insulting comments in French (a language which, the major had quickly ascertained to his delight, Bush didn’t understand), and speaking to him as if he somehow thought that Bush was simple. Bush would not, under normal circumstances, put up with such behaviour from anyone, and to have to endure it from a bloody Frog was particularly galling. He satisfied himself with making disparaging remarks about the French in Côtard’s hearing, pretending not to notice the perplexed, insulted looks the major threw in his direction.

By the time Bush reached his cabin, after a long day ended by his taking the first watch, he was desperate to turn in. He had at some point managed to force down some of the unappetising mess Styles called stew, and now could think of nothing but his cot. For some reason, Côtard had been almost pleasant o him when he passed the major as he descended the quarterdeck ladder. Bush had been surprised to see Côtard so late above decks, but the man had made some comment about wanting to get some air and, too tired to care, Bush thought nothing more of it. At least if Côtard was absent, he stood some chance of getting to sleep.

Bush opened the cabin door, and wandered inside almost in a daze, shrugging himself automatically out of his uniform jacket and pulling the queue ribbon from his hair. He made to throw them over the chair, and started in surprise as he realised that the chair was missing. Looking around in consternation, Bush saw that the entire cabin had been rearranged in his absence: the two cots were now as far apart as possible, which was no bad thing, although Bush could see that, as soon as the sea became rough, he would be flung against the bulkhead; the chair was now on Côtard’s side, his clothes lying over it, his personal items covering the tiny desk and the washstand. Bush could not see his own belongings, but his sea chest sat in the middle of the deck, the lid partially open. His best nightshirt, the one his eldest sister had made, lay across Côtard’s cot, a sight that caused the anger that had been simmering all day to finally boil over. Although Bush did not use the garment as a rule, preferring to sleep in shirt and trousers in case of action, there was a principle at stake here.

Though England and France might now be at peace, war had been declared on the Hotspur.

And William Bush was damned if he’d be on the losing side.

  



	2. Part One

PART TWO

 

“My boots ‘ave need of blacking, Bush. See to it.”

Bush fought down the urge to take the pair of riding boots being so imperiously held out to him and hurl them out of the tiny cabin window. He would have taken immense satisfaction from seeing them sink into the Channel. Instead, he forced a smile. “Of course, major. I’ll deal with it right away.”

Côtard nodded. “See that you do. I expect to see my face in them.”

“And so you shall.” Bush took the boots, trying very hard not to snatch them from the major’s outstretched hand. Côtard had taken to treating him like a glorified cabin boy, and it was getting increasingly difficult to keep calm. He was being baited, he knew, but he refused to rise to it and give Côtard the reaction he wanted. Bush was a patient man, he could bide his time…

***

“That cat doesn’t look very happy in there.”

Hammond knelt on the deck, trying to make out the shape within the rush basket. There was a screech, a rustle, and he backed away quickly, narrowly avoiding having his nose clawed. William paced the basket restlessly, furious with his enforced confinement, tail lashing the sides.

“Cats shouldn’t be caged up, should they?”

Orrock shrugged. “Captain’s orders. He’s to be kept out of mischief.”

“Maybe we could get him a saucer of milk,” Hammond suggested.

“Don’t be daft, Jack! Where would we get one? You can’t keep milk fresh on a ship. He’s been fed, he’ll be fine.”

“He’s very angry.” Hammond peered into the basket again, from a safe distance this time. “He doesn’t like being locked up.”

“Neither would you, but orders are orders. If you let him out, Mr Bush will be after you,” said Orrock. “He’ll probably introduce you to the gunner’s daughter.”

Hammond blinked in confusion. “There aren’t any women on board, are there?”

“Oh, Jack.” Orrock shook his head. “You have a hell of a lot to learn.”

***

“Here, Styles.”

There was a clatter and a jingle of spurs - Styles looked up from the stove in surprise to see that a pair of riding boots had been deposited on the galley workbench. Lieutenant Bush was standing there, looking tired and irritable – he waved towards the boots.

“Major Côtard wants his boots blacked. Take care of it, will you?”

“Sir?”

“You’re the captain’s steward now, Styles. Cooking is only part of your duties.”

Styles looked at the boots in consternation. They were an expensive piece of kit, probably made by one of the best boot makers in London. He would have been willing to bet that they cost more than a year’s wages. “Sir, I don’t…’ow d’you black boots?”

Bush gave him a despairing look. “Don’t tell me you’ve never cleaned shoes before, man!”

“No, sir, never ‘ad shoes ‘alf the time. What d’you do?”

“Well, you...Why’re you asking me?” Bush demanded, suddenly annoyed.

“Well, sir, I thought you might know, what wi’ yer uncle an’ all - ”

Bush’s pale blue glare was so sharp it could have impaled Styles on the spot. “My uncle, Styles, was a blacksmith, not a boot black. And I’ll thank you to keep overheard information to yourself in future.” He turned to leave. “Just get on with the boots.”

“But, what shall I use, sir?” Styles asked plaintively, at a complete loss.

“Your imagination, Styles. I assume you have one somewhere.” Bush arched an eyebrow. “Just make sure that they’re gleaming. The major wants to be able to see his face in them.”

“Ain’t ‘e got a mirror, then, sir?”

Bush’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Get on with it, Styles. Take them to the major when you’re done.”

Styles sighed. “Aye, aye, sir.” When Bush had gone, he looked desperately around the galley. “What the ‘ell d’you use to back boots?”

 

***

Hornblower groaned inwardly as there was a knock at his cabin door. “Who’s there?”

“Bush, sir. May I come in?”

“Of course.” He pushed back his chair, relieved that the visitor was, for once, not his unwanted guest. Côtard had taken to appearing at regular intervals and complaining about everything, from the food (about which he, did, Hornblower conceded, have a valid point) to naval timekeeping.

The door opened and Bush appeared, immaculate as ever though there were dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in a week. “Good morning, sir.”

“You look tired, Mr Bush. I trust that you are getting adequate rest.”

“I regret to say that I have yet to become accustomed to Major Côtard’s snoring, sir. I think I would have more success trying to sleep through a bombardment,” Bush said.

That explained his curious attempt to draw the night watch every day, a request Hornblower had refused. He had had to listen to complaints from Côtard about Bush, claiming that the first lieutenant was being deliberately provoking. Hornblower had seen no real evidence of this – Bush’s mistrust of the Frenchman matched his own, and he had shown great fortitude in enduring the major’s barbed comments during shared meals. Hornblower had caught some of Côtard’s muttered remarks to himself, and was grateful that Bush had no understanding of French. If he had, Côtard might well have found himself pitched overboard, which, Hornblower thought uncharitably, would be no bad thing. Personal considerations aside, he had to try and remain impartial, for the good of the ship. “William - ” he began in a warning tone.

“My apologies, sir. The major is a little…trying.”

Typical understatement. “I know, I know. I cannot have you at each other’s throats, though. He is our guest, at the request of the admiral, and we must endure him as best we can.”

Bush sighed. “Yes, I know. The gun drills, sir,” he said, changing the subject, for which Hornblower was thankful.

“What of them?”

“I was thinking that perhaps we should have one at night – if war is declared we can’t rely on the enemy to attack in daylight. The men should be prepared.”

Hornblower considered this. It was a good idea, one that, he had to admit, had not occurred to him. He glanced at Bush, wondering what had caused him to think of it – Bush was not exactly known for his spontaneity. “So they should, Mr Bush. Inform Mr Prowse that we will have a drill at four bells in the first watch.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I thought that perhaps we should begin without warning. Keep the men on their toes.”

“Another good idea.” Hornblower found himself frowning slightly. He looked sharply at Bush, but the man’s expression was all innocence. There was something odd here, he was sure of it now. “Very well,” he said, watching Bush’s reaction. As usual, Bush was careful not to give him one. “Dismissed, Mr Bush.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bush turned smartly on his heel, face perfectly composed.

Hornblower could have sworn, however, that he caught a glimpse of a mischievous smile playing around his first lieutenant’s lips as he left the cabin.

 

***

“He really doesn’t like it in there.”

The basket shuddered again, annoyed miaows emerging as William swiped his claws along the sides. Hammond eyed the angry cat nervously.

“You’re right there, sir. Shouldn’t lock a cat up – isn’t natural for ‘em,” said Wolfe, appearing at Hammond’s shoulder as if by magic. The Irishman had a habit of popping up when least expected, which was unsettling.

“That’s what I thought, but the captain’s orders - ”

“And there was I thinking that you English always put the welfare of your animals before your own. Or is that just dogs and horses?” Wolfe crouched down by the basket, reaching out a finger. “Hey there, calm down, you’ll be doin’ a mischief to yourself.”

“I wouldn’t do that - ” Hammond began.

Too late – Wolfe leapt back, swearing and clutching his hand. “Little bugger bit me!”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Vicious bloody creature!” Wolfe let loose a string of curses that made Hammond colour up to the roots of his hair in embarrassment. “Should’ve been drowned at birth!”

As if the cat had understood, the basket gave another jerk, moving a few feet across the deck with the force of William’s renewed assault. Wolfe just glared at it. “You needn’t think you’ll be staying around – it’ll be over the side with you!”

***

“Capitaine ‘Ornblower!!”

The cabin door banged open without so much as a cursory knock. Before Hornblower could say anything, Major Côtard had flown into the room, face twisted with rage, waving a pair of what appeared to be riding boots.

“Look at these!” he exclaimed, shaking them in Hornblower’s face.

“Major, I’ve told you before - ” Bush began, only to be cut off as Côtard rounded on him.

“You! This is your doing! What ‘ave you done to my boots?”

“I have done nothing to your boots, major. You asked me to - ”

“What is going on here?” Hornblower demanded, getting to his feet. Côtard was looming menacingly over Bush, who glared up at him. “Major! What the devil is the matter?”

“This man…this…this…English imbécile…’e ‘as done this deliberately!” Côtard spat.

“Done what? Mr Bush?”

“The major is being ridiculous, sir. I have done nothing to his boots,” said Bush.

“Maybe not you, maybe you did not do this with your own hand, but you were behind it, I know,” Côtard told him. “You let that…animal of your ruin my boots.”

“Animal?” Now Hornblower was completely perplexed. “What does the cat have to do with this?”

“Not the cat – that monkey, that ill-bred son of a - ”

“He means Styles, sir,” Bush said. “The major requested to have his boots blacked. Styles is the steward - ”

“Yes, thank you, Mr Bush. I understand,” said Hornblower. “My apologies, major. We are unfortunately unaccustomed to dealing with such requests in His Majesty’s Navy. Mr Bush did what he thought was right.”

“And what are you going to do about it, eh? My best boots, they are beyond repair!” Côtard waved them again, as if to illustrate his point.

Hornblower looked at them. The leather seemed a little sticky, he had to admit, but they were shining, so Styles seemed to have done something right. “I confess that I cannot see a problem with them.”

“Look ‘ere.” Côtard ran a finger along one toe, and held it up for Hornblower to see – there was black grease all over the tip. “I now also ‘ave a pair of gloves I can no longer wear.”

“Ha hmm.” Hornblower cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, you’re quite right, major - they cannot remain like that. I will have Styles properly clean and polish them for you.”

“I will not ‘ave that man touch anything more of mine,” declared Côtard with a sniff. He flicked a glance in Bush’s direction. “This is ‘is fault – let ‘im clean them.”

Bush stared at him, brows drawing sharply together, and opened his mouth to reply – Hornblower leapt in before he could speak. “Lieutenant Bush’s duties do not include cleaning shoes, major. Styles is my steward – he made the mistake, and he will rectify it. You may leave this matter with me.”

Côtard did not look convinced. “You ‘ave not ‘eard the last of this,” he said darkly, and left the cabin, shooting Bush a glare on the way. The door slammed behind him.

For several moments, neither Hornblower nor Bush said a word, both looking at the riding boots that stood in the middle of Hornblower’s desk. Eventually, Hornblower said, “What do you think he used?”

Bush raised an eyebrow. “Black lead and - ”

“ – goose grease. Yes, that’s what I thought.” Hornblower struggled to keep the smile that was trying to spread over his face at bay. The situation was so ridiculous…were it not for that fact that Côtard was there on the admiral’s orders, he would already have been laughing.

There was a telltale twitch around Bush’s lips. “He did his best, sir. What do you suppose they use to black boots in London?”

“I have no idea, but I’m fairly sure it doesn’t involve goose grease.”

“It has given them a shine, though, sir – may be there’s something in it after all.” Bush coughed, raising a hand to his mouth to hide the smirk that was creeping in at the corners.

“William, if I discover you had anything to do with this…” Hornblower arched an eyebrow of his own.

Bush straightened to attention. “I merely did my duty, sir.”

“Hmm. Well, you had better take these back to Styles and tell him to clean them again. And while you are about there, perhaps you had better show him how to do it properly.”

Obviously reluctant, but too good a subordinate to dispute his captain’s orders, Bush went. Only when he was sure that the lieutenant was safely out of earshot did Hornblower finally begin to laugh.

***

“Do you have anything I can take for William, Styles?”

The big man looked at Hammond, frowning. “Take fer who, sir?”

“The cat. I think he’s hungry. Do you have any scraps?”

This was evidently an odd request – Hammond guessed that cats aboard ship had to find their own food, chasing rats and mice. Styles started looking around, amongst his dinner preparations. Hammond didn’t want to see too clearly – the food was hard enough to stomach without knowing how it was made. “Aye, I think I got summat ‘ere,” Styles said, coming up with something that might have been a sausage before it was cooked. “Leftovers from breakfast. Think ‘e’ll like ‘em?”

Hammond doubted that – the sausage looked as though it was more charcoal than meat – but he took it anyway. There was some overcooked bacon, too – small wonder that they had been left. “Thank you.” He wisely fled before he could see Styles at work. The galley seemed to have been turned upside down.

William’s basket was where it had been left, in the cable tiers. Hammond crouched down. “Come on, William, I’ve got something for you. I’m sure you must be hungry by now.”

To his surprise, there was no answering onslaught on the side of the basket. He bent a little closer, trying to see inside. Perhaps the cat was asleep. Careful not to give William an opportunity to bite him, he reached out to tap the side of the basket.

It was then that he noticed the loose catch on the lid. Hammond lifted it cautiously, ready to jump back at the first sign of an outraged tabby, but nothing happened. His heart sank into his shoes.

“Oh, no…”

The basket was empty.

 

***

“Four bells, sir.”

“Indeed, Mr Bush.” Hornblower spoke quietly, careful not to let Prowse hear him. The master was already suspicious, evidently taking the presence of both senior officers on the quarterdeck during his watch as some sort of insult to his ability. “See to it, if you please.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bush turned, leaning on the rail, and bellowed, “Beat to quarters! Clear for action!”

The watch below leapt as though they had been shot, scurrying around like startled mice. Matthews’s whistle shrilled through the clear night air, above the sound of running feet and shouted orders. Prowse hurried over to the rail.

“Sir, what the devil - ”

“An exercise, Mr Prowse. Never hurts to keep the men on their toes,” Hornblower said, rocking on his heels, watching the activity below. Men swarmed up through the hatchways, taking up their stations. Most were looking confused, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes. “How long, Mr Bush?”

“Eleven and a half minutes, sir.”

“Not quick enough. Very well, carry on.”

“Aye, sir.” Bush swung himself down the quarterdeck ladder. The crews were ready and waiting for their orders, the guns primed and loaded. “Run out!”

The wheels of the nine pounders rumbled on the deck, the wood vibrating beneath Bush’s feet. He took a deep breath. “FIRE!!”

One after another, the guns went off, in a perfectly choreographed sequence. They kicked backwards as they fired, the boom of the explosions louder than ever in the still night air. While they may not have been as powerful as the reports of the eighteen pounders on the Renown, they could certainly make one hell of a noise. After so long spent on a gun deck, Bush was constantly amazed that he still had his hearing – he had known gunners permanently deafened by their charges.

“FIRE!!” he yelled again, and this time the larb’d guns unleashed their volley into the darkness. Smoke drifted across the deck, ash and powder hanging in the air. The noise died away. “Stand by your guns.”

“Well done, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, descending the ladder.

“Thank you, sir. I - ” Bush did not get to finish the sentence, as the next moment they were interrupted by a bizarre figure which had appeared from the hatchway. Tall and dark, wearing nothing more than a dressing gown and a nightshirt which was several inches too short, it loomed out of the smoke towards Bush and Hornblower.

“What the devil is ‘appening ‘ere?!” a familiar voice demanded, high-pitched with a mixture of panic and indignation. “Can no one even sleep on this ship?”

“Major!” Hornblower looked over at Bush. “Did you not inform the major of our intention to drill the men, Mr Bush?”

Bush schooled his features into his most impassive professional expression. “I regret to say that it must have slipped my mind, sir.”

“What is the meaning of this, capitaine? What madman drills his men in the middle of the night?” Côtard exclaimed incredulously.

“A good captain ensures that his men are prepared for anything,” Hornblower replied, still looking at Bush. “Please accept my apologies for your rude awakening, major. You may safely return to bed – there will be no more interruptions tonight.”

“I am glad to ‘ear it.” Côtard flounced away, giving Bush a sharp glance as he passed. Bush returned the look, arching an eyebrow.

“Mr Bush – a word if you please,” said Hornblower. Bush followed his captain to the starboard rail – there was an odd expression on Hornblower’s face. “You thought that the men needed a night exercise, eh, William?” he asked.

“It seemed…appropriate, sir.”

“It had nothing to do with the likelihood of Major Côtard sleeping just a few feet below the gun deck, then?”

“Why should you think that, sir?” Bush said, with all the innocence he could muster.

Hornblower looked at him, and, even in the dim light of the lantern it was clear that he didn’t believe a word. “No reason at all, Mr Bush. I am pleased to find my first lieutenant so assiduous in his duties.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Just don’t let it happen again.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

***

“Charlie, I need to speak to you.”

Orrock stopped walking and looked at Hammond in surprise. “What’s the matter?”

“The cat’s escaped.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“I don’t know – I went to take him some food and the basket was open. Maybe someone let him out,” Hammond said hopefully.

Orrock swore under his breath. “Mr Bush will go mad.”

Hammond paled – he had been looking extremely tense and worried ever since Orrock had revealed the identity of the gunner’s daughter. “It wasn’t my fault!” he protested.

“Well, you were the last one there. Someone will have to take the blame, that’s the way things work.” Orrock became aware of a presence behind him – glancing around, expecting to see Mr Bush, he saw instead the balding form of the Hotspur’s cox’n hovering in the shadows. “Can we help you, Wolfe?”

“Just making a round of the deck, Mr Orrock, checking everything’s tucked up safe.” Wolfe knuckled his forehead and went on his way, lantern flame bobbing into the distance.

Hammond looked at Orrock, desperation in his eyes. “What am I going to do?”

Orrock sighed. “Come on. We’d better try and find him.”

***

It was some time before Bush retired below decks to try and grab whatever sleep he could. He was sure that by now he was so tired he could probably sleep through a pitched battle.

Everything appeared to be as it should when he descended, everything, that was, except the for the two figures that seemed to be scurrying around on their hands and knees, looking under tables and behind fixtures.

As Bush watched with interest, one turned to the other, calling quietly, “It’s no good, there’s no sign of him!”

“We’ll have to try the living quarters – he seems to like it there,” the other replied, its accent distinctive.

“No sign of what, Mr Hammond?” Bush asked loudly, making the pair of them jump. Hammond’s dark curly head, eyes blinking like those of a rabbit startled by a fox, appeared from behind one of the trestle tables.

“Mr Bush!” The boy looked terrified, and well he might, Bush thought, if he couldn’t provide a decent explanation for his conduct.

“The very same,” he said, folding his arms and fixing Hammond with a hard stare. “Come out, Mr Orrock. Perhaps the two of you would care to explain exactly what you’re doing? I believe catching mice is the job of the cat, not the midshipmen.”

“Er…” Hammond began, visibly quailing under Bush’s gaze, “I, um…”

“It’s about the cat, Mr Bush,” said Orrock quickly, scrambling to his feet. “He’s got out. We were trying to find him.”

“Indeed. And how did he get out? Was the basket not fastened securely?” Bush enquired.

“Well - ”

“Someone undid the clasp, sir,” Hammond blurted. “I found the basket empty earlier.”

Bush swore violently, one of his more choice curses, making Hammond jump once more. If William had got into Côtard’s dunnage again, there would be hell to pay. “And you only tell me this now?”

“I didn’t like to disturb you, sir - ”

“All right, all right.” Bush waved the excuse away. It looked as though he was going to have to find the damned animal himself, before Côtard wrung its neck. “I will deal with it. Get back to your berths, both of you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” They didn’t wait for him to change his mind, evidently relieved at having got away so lightly.

Bush turned towards his own cabin, having a very strong feeling that he knew where William would be. Hornblower had been correct in his deduction that the cat had taken a fancy to Bush – the animal had been following him around, but would let no one else near him. Bush tried to give him to Matthews to take to the cable tiers, but William took such an instant dislike to the bos’n that Bush was forced to perform the task himself.

“I wish to ‘ave a word with you,” a voice said suddenly in his ear. Bush spun, hand automatically going for his sword, to see Côtard standing right behind him, face smeared with soot from the gun deck, the too-short nightshirt still flapping about his calves. There was a certain satisfaction to be gained from the knowledge that, while Côtard may have demanded the use of the garment, it was such a bad fit that he might as well not have bothered. Despite his somewhat ridiculous appearance, the major’s face still bore that maddening expression of arrogant superiority.

Bush relaxed, but only slightly. “What do you want, major?”

“You did it délibérément, all the noise. You are in charge of the guns, are you not? You arranged to wake me!” Côtard snapped accusingly.

“Nonsense. Making sure that the crew are prepared is my job.”

“Non, non, it was deliberate, calculé! Explosions, smoke…you wanted me to think that the world was coming to an end!”

Bush tried not to smile at that. “Did you, then?”

Côtard shook his head impatiently. “That is not the point! Since I came aboard this ship, you ‘ave been a…a…une épine dans mon côté!” he declared.

“A what?”

“A…thorn, in my side! A devil! You ‘ave been trying your ‘ardest to be rid of me!”

“A trifle overdramatic, major – we are in the middle of the Channel. There is nowhere for you to go,” Bush pointed out, annoyed by the Frenchman’s theatrics.

“I know it to be true. Oui, you and your creatures, you ‘ave been persecuting me! You ‘ave been poisoning the capitaine’s ear against me! But it will not work, I tell you!”

Bush had had enough. “Major, you are being ridiculous. I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same.” He pushed past Côtard, who continued to rant on in the same overblown way at his elbow, heading for his quarters. When he reached them, he opened the cabin door slowly, wondering what he was likely to find. Côtard was right behind him, irritatingly, as though attached to his shoulder by some invisible means.

To Bush’s great relief, all seemed as it should be in the cabin. He peered around cautiously, searching for any evidence of William’s presence – he had expected to find Côtard’s belongings strewn across the deck, mauled beyond repair, but there was nothing.

“What are you expecting?” Côtard asked, voice full of amusement. “The enemy ‘iding be’ind the door? I am out ‘ere.”

“I’d rather lie in wait for them,” Bush muttered, ignoring the major’s last jibe and stepping into the cabin. Nothing was out of place, much to his surprise, except for the rumpled blankets on Côtard’s cot, testament to his rude awakening. And on the blankets…

William was curled up there; tail lashing slowly back and forth, head on one side, observing them. Bush was immediately suspicious – the cat looked extremely pleased with himself.

“What is that animal doing ‘ere?” Côtard stiffened, regarding William with intense dislike. “I ‘ad thought that it was to be locked up.”

“He was. You can’t contain a cat, major.” Especially not this one, Bush added silently. He shot William a look as if to say, ‘What have you done?’ The cat gazed innocently back at him.

Côtard advanced on his cot, waving his hands and making shooing motions. “Go away. Go on – allez!”

William yawned and sank his head on his paws, ignoring the major’s attempts to stir him from his adopted bed. Côtard reached out, clearly intending to pick the cat up and bodily remove him – Bush watched, leaning on the bulkhead, just waiting for the inevitable. In an instant, William came awake, the hair on his back on end, tail bristling, teeth bared. He lunged forwards, right at Côtard, hissing furiously – the major took a startled step backwards, snatching his hand away.

“Bush, remove this animal,” he ordered imperiously.

Bush pulled off his jacket and lay down on his own cot, hands folded behind his head. “He’s not bothering me,” he said, closing his eyes. “Let him stay where he is.”

It was precisely six seconds until he sensed Côtard looming over him. He cracked open one eye – Côtard clearly had no idea how ludicrous he looked, his powder-blackened face surrounded by straggling dark hair and twisted in righteous anger.

“Remove that an-i-mal,” he repeated, enunciating the word deliberately, “Immédiatement!”

Bush met the furious gaze with a calm one of his own, and very slowly and carefully said, “No.”

Côtard’s eyebrows shot up. “Ce qui?”

“I said, no. The cat is dong no harm.”

“I wish to sleep!”

“As do I, though I’ve had little enough of late.” Bush looked over at William thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll strike a bargain with you, major.”

“A bargain?” Côtard frowned. “What kind of bargain?”

Bush sat up, leaning on his elbows, and nodded towards William. “I could remove the cat, allow you to have your bed back, but I have a price.”

The major straightened, looking suspicious. “Which is…?”

“Respect. Consideration. Acknowledgement of my position aboard this ship.”

“And if I refuse?”

Bush lay back down again. “Well, the captain has given you the option of sleeping on deck…”

“Attente! Wait!” Côtard caught hold of his arm. “Per’aps we can make a deal, eh?”

“I have given you my terms, major – take them or leave them.”

There was a long pause. Côtard muttered to himself in French for some time before he turned back to Bush. “You drive an ‘ard bargain, Bush.”

“I am just protecting my own interests, major. Do you agree?”

Another protracted pause, then a nod. “Oui, oui, I ‘ave no choice.”

“Very little. Do I have your word?”

“Oui. My word as a loyal son of France.”

“Thank you.” Bush climbed out of the cot and padded over to William. “Come on, you menace.” He lifted the cat, carrying him over to the door. William did not resist. Before he let him go, Bush looked at the cat seriously, holding his head to look him in the eye. “You are to behave yourself, understood?” Unsurprisingly, the cat did not respond. Bush opened the door and released him – William looked back for a moment, tail twitching, and vanished into the shadows.

Côtard was looking on in amusement. “You English and your animals…no wonder that cat likes you, Bush – you are both silent, aloof and maddeningly tenacious.”

“Remember our bargain, major,” Bush warned, crossing to the washstand.

“Oui, oui. I am going to bed now – I shall not trouble your further.”

Neither man spoke as Bush washed the grime from his face and hands. It seemed that Côtard had not noticed that his face was in a similar state – he had climbed into his cot and laid there, hands folded on his chest and eyes closed. Eventually, Bush found his own berth, reaching out to turn down the lamp. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, relishing the darkness and the cool roughness of the pillow against his head.

“Bon nuit, Monsieur Bush,” came Côtard’s voice unexpectedly.

“Good night, major.” Bush closed his eyes, already drifting down into sleep.

But just before he finally did slip over the horizon, he could have swore he heard Côtard say, “You will ‘ave the ship to yourself tomorrow – the capitaine and I are going ashore. Without you.” There was a pause. Then: “This battle may belong to you, Bush, but not the war. Never the war.”

 

The End


End file.
